e^jvnwß-. ’kte^cAap'CToL mh Wmsdm*xr !«*t BOOK MANtTFACmRv rtablißhincijt ia chiefly devote tin 10 dy Oflbwa. HeilroedpwatpnoUa. Alt [Mi*. Todivtamoa. i» tdEJtm atockattdwurkaauhinaiavboSlloS^Wr Blank Book* printed, V*ttirß. Sheriff**. .Atteroeya h’ 0 "' 1 t„ HiSS. made and .WBeSS&t nv 0, ticc ' Aa*o*am*nta. Sopite***, Ac,to r counti u ""‘ or p)atn, ruled and bound to order ty J nu >j Idoftbe he*tllurn paper. r sand others, desiring to hare thfir t, moderate price. should giv« ut acm o' ■ a- largest aisea. Ilarper>i Wsokjv rt.?**' iltoo*, Scientific American, Lufrf,^ l^ 011 '* ar. and Itiany.ityle retired. Harnartat JUkkerbockrr, ll«iwo«i^^ t 0 , M'.i.t1.., LWj’s Book, Lady’.Bepliitmvil* lll ’ M, Plano Knaic. Ac, bound In e*tm»2lP' ~r la end, anbatantial half binding. . SaltS 0r Jdathuinee. PamobleC laws, bound In » , “ •t wy moderate price*. Pare™,, olanie* to bind, will receive 4liLt*,u? T IIK & M*iS wit to ap.fSm (iH wokk entrnetedT draafaly pecked and retarued by Address Jr. L. OMA DKUN, at tbe Tribtme Office’ . Itebna. and Vicinity. Thsy wfll «i!o,infeL mj i»te binding, and receive andctolS . tap charges, tor ail who : V -: , [March a. J^ 10 «5 ~S — 65 C ~5 * a&V o 2 g r ~ SagU fe. • p * § HU ?! & * * i Mw w “1 £ BMP §s pSK 5 S -In Th»! Zj.S .2.1 t%v © H,' o 3 ,5 •-■ m H « ScSgi g- EEKi is ffi' acssS eaaH! ~ £ rSiii < «s§-i t r ~*-~*ria fir o £•«: c.j {ißjv s- S ; *&■. S'gd.e = hJ E|t~ : ■ - ' QO a i-£- :; ••••• sn si 1 rACOB WETS, R AND CONFECTIONER, ViKiasiA Snuat. Aitoosa, p... < CONSTANTLY ON HAND BAD, CAKES, CANDIES CM HATS, of librown nuumCiCture. which hr ' *«••< wMwale or retail. «t tlw moat reason! AUo. POtIEIUN FKCTXS. .«Ji ar ;es. lemons, pine-apples I'NES, RAISINS. NUTS, 4C., &C fi 1 in tlirir respective acasona. S BAKED TO ORDER, ‘ oLtMionn, on short notice and in tlie ncat tvie of the art.’ i tue and price my stock and yon will flue u-hcap a* cun b* purchased elsewhere. NFEQTIONER^ OYSTER SALOON. Si'HSCIMREiI WOULD IS ttiecilweiis of Altoona and vicinity th*t l»u NEKY. NUT Hiiil FRUIT STOKE, is alua\. k the very Uestarfi.left to be had, and fr-gnut iut*,al*i> an STEK SALOON , b snore, in which he will serve up OYSTEI;!* u tiring the season. lA*£Z? BREAD, ft PIES aheoyson han-j ;luue« prepared (o supply cakes, candies. 4c.. Mother parties. He iitvltera share of pulli SNvihg that he-«an render full satisfaction tc hisstore and saloon i* onVirginiastteet.tv,- NhtohV Hail. OTTOBOS3I. *.10.1861-tr . FETTINGER’S jral Xews Agency. LL, So. 7, MAIN STREET L BOOKS, BLANK 1 BOOKS, SIiUY, CONFECTIONAIUK.' ARS & TOBACCO, a NOTIONS IN GREAT VARIETY 'CONSTANTLY OS lUXS. EJLOYB & GO., iMVHMTi. PA.. STON, JACK &jCO.. aoLLa>AYf!sc&e, pa- NKEBS, Johnston, Jack £ C«.”) ‘TS ON THE PRINCIPAL hi‘Silver and G6ld for nle. Cbllectiou! .received on de|K?eUe, payaiblem* detuauu. or upon time, with Interest Ot fair Hte? KESSLER—PRACTIC A L K-lET, reinq-lftill. aimiq t »f 4lb»ua and the pDHte wt t.WTioleaaleaud tOmCAiS, OILS, VaBMISB- 4E3 utlon to buiinut, and a d<*it» tor«iKl« » 1- fqnrib prior and qmiuQr, liopw t‘ ma atiare of pabllcpatrooage. <1 InrrtlmnU roppUdd on rtW>B*Sieitr 11 "' •nw a dUtaccr promptly auawlid to. Mcrtpttaia earafttliy coapwuidad. [l-«- DY FRIENDS \V.OULD P° * ia npoa -the cbeke MpAcb&to aK> "' 1 DRlfcS GOODS the Cor. of Virginia tfionW.!* 2S.US2. IND LAUD OILS, OA-M nd«« jrjau. Carbon 08. t ‘^ s g Uae& . D AT McCOjUdJtC£’i>'^ re M unrtnwai HES.-r-A LA»6JS ANI> -iv o f : . 48. -BltJtiM MAT, TOOTH, gBAVINO. ym m prints . U.LA2J AND PABASUhS a witty. «t ' ijMHHOIAS* YLMS GAKPBTW W* ■-cm. EliAi., ASSOKTMK^OfOVg' ■ *25; mALL jassO&P MoCRUM & DERN, \ ()L. 8 I’HK ALTOONA TRIBUNE. jl MrCRt'M. £DI T<> H 3 AND PROPRIETORS p t -i rtuDwm, (payable iiivambly in Advance,}....*. $l6O pstpeie discontinue at tbe.expiration Of the tidb ..u-i t-r. ■ ' .F ADYXRTISI.YO IERM* <1 1. insertion 2 do. 3 do. . ~i t - liues or less $ 2a $ $ W afiuari 1 . (8 lines) 30 lb \ UO ■(“ 1 .. , It-, •• ; 100 180' 200 *4, •• lU - J 130 2 00; ' 230 1 ‘*' er t hive weeks HU-1 lee* than three mouths, 25 Cents for each insertion. „ * ‘ S mooths- 6 months. 1 year. 150 $ 3 00 $5OO 2 60 4 00 7 00 4 00 0 00 10 OO 6 00 8 00 12 00 6 00 10 0© 14 UO .. “f * column 10 00 14 00 20 00 culuu.lt 14 00 23 UO ! 40 00 i.'iiiiTii.tralora uod Kxi-cuUirs huticuu 1 .3 I. idiaiiu ndvurti-iug bj the jatr. tbreo tiq urus. v\ line* v * r iii; -qlli*™ TUre^ nlii Ijl'Tty wcli»'ige or business Cards, But exceeding 8 lines '.’itu peryear : & W J ' o niiuunicatiuiiH of n politic* character or individual r«i, wjil i«* charged according to the above rates, i iv. rtis**me»ts uot marked with the number of inser ucil. will be continued till forbid and c turged ..rdinjf to the above i.U'im-ss notice*i Jive cents per line for every insertion, it.iiiiittj- notice'. exceeding ten lines, fifty cents a square. BALTIMORE LOCK HOSPITAL VS V RKPUUK PKOM QUACKKKT fie Only Place Where a Cure Can , be Obtained. UK, JOHNaON lias discovered the iu.mt. Certain. Spevdy and only Effectual Remedy in world fjr all Private Dist-use*. Weakness of the Back i ji.m, iti ihiurt-s Affections of the Kidneys and Blad iuvoluruury UUciurg^.iiapotuiKy,General Debility, Oviipepsy. Languor. Low Spirit's; Confusion i i'.iv Palpitation of the , Heart. Timidity, Tremblings, '„f Sight or Giddiness, Disease of . the lleid, ,r. So>*o or Skin, Affections of the Liver. Luug*.Stom> ~ ~ b ovids—'llnwe Terrible disorders arising from the - ..irury HiidU of Youth—those secret and solitary prac* , ujr - fatal t<> rheii victims than the song of Syrens to . vUriuurs of Ulysses. blighting their most brilliant ov anticipations, rendering marriage Me . impossi- YOUNG MEN ■ .i.edkilv, who have become the victims of Sdlisa?y Jice, .insidful and destuctive habit .which anmtnLy -sweeps ' mi untimely gtave thousands of Young KUp of the most v ; died talents aud brilliant intellect, who might other 'u.tvo entranced listening Senates with thunders uence. or waked to ectasy the living lyre, may call .. ; , full confidence. MARRIAGE^ tr , j e i Persons, or Young Men ctnemplating marriage, , of physical weakness, organic debility, defor i .\. i . speedily cured. ;i- wlnt places idnueU under thn cure of Dr. J. may re .■.■.u»ly confide in his honor as a gentleman, and ccmfi- *■.lly rdv upon his skill as a physician. ORGANIC WEAKNESS l iieiii iieiv Cured, mid full Vigor Restored. : n- Ui-n’easing Aff-.-ction—which renders Life miserable :.i image impo-.-ible—is t!ie penalty paid by the • :ii- ..f improper indulgences. Young persons are to uuinil exces e- from uol being uwaie *«f the dread ■av.pleuccn lh»l may ensu«*. Now. whit that under 1u tiu* subject will pretend to deny that the power of i ati .n is lost so.-uer by those falling into improper .•r> Uiau bv the prudent \ Doside* being deprived the ••.or--of healthy offspring, tin* most morions and de u. iivh svtnptoin- both body and mind arise. The • -( in '.KVi’mios Deranged. thv Physical and M*-ntal Fnnc i is Weakened. Lo>- d Procreative Power. Nervous liri .: 1 1j v. l)\sp -psia, Palpitation of the Heart,indigestion -Mitutmnal Debility, a Wasting of the Frame, Cough, •u-umption. Decay and Death- OFFICE. NO. 7 SOUTH FREDERICK STREET, h.oid side going from Baltimore street, a few doors i*ii rii- -'orner. Fail not to'observe name apd number must i»e paid and contain u slump. The Doc ■«iDiplomas hang in his office A CURE WARRANTED IN TWO DAYS. Xn Mercury or Xiueon? Drug*. OR- JOHNSON. • -mt.or of the Royal College of Surgeons, Loudon. Grad t from one, of the most viuineut Colleges ifi the United -•;!I,-, and the greater part of whose life has been spent In .. hospitals of London, Paris, Philadelphia and else .L?n-. has effected some of the moat aatouislring cure*- i.d w**Ve ever known: many troubled with ringing in,the , ’ >vl and e*r« when asleep, great nervousness, being :.rmed at sudden son ids, baahfuloesa, with frequent ’ ’i-diing. attended sometimes with derangement of mind. • re cured immediately. TAKE PARTICULAR NOTICE- Dr. J. addresses all those who have injured themselves \ mproper indulgence aod solitary habits which.ruin >• >:h body and miud, unfitting them for either business. ' •!>•. society or marriage. 1 These urejome of tlie sad' and melancholy effects pro •ii -il by eaHy Imhifa of youth, vis: Weakness of the ’ < -k and Limbs, Pains iu the Head, Dimrewi of Sight, i -s of Muscular Power, Palpitation of the Heart. Dys • j.i‘«rhftppinoM. li'deed, wltli •>ut ih«iad of discovery, him from applying to tho*e » , from odueittion -and respectability, copy Dr. Johnston's advcr foments, or stylo themselws, In the newspaper*, regu larty Kducated Physician*. lAcapable of. Curing, they keep T-Ji ti ifl[ng mouth after month, taking tbetr filthy and {voiiiAiiotw compounds, or as long as the smallest fee cau b * >i*Uined, and in despair, leave you with ruined health 'igh over your galling disappointment. = hr. J.»hn*ton is tho only Physician advertising, Uii credential or diploma* always hang lit hla office. His remedies or treatment fire unknown to all others. i*r«:* \r?d fr.un a I if* spent in the great hospitals of Europe. tu«s first in the a more extensile Private Prae* f,fy tlinn any other Physician in the world. _ indorsement of the press. l he many thousands cured at this Institution, year after J*ar. and the numerous important fcorgictl operations j>srformod hr J<>hu*to letters received unless post-paid vid containing a «s«apt-> be used on the reply Persons writing should slate Hjaaii ««ndp>rtiou «»f advertisement describing symptoms should be particular iu . directing their Wr< t 0 ‘hi* Institution, in the following manner: JOHN M. JOHNSTON- M. D., Of the 9*Ulaore Look Hospital, Maryland Hhcitf go«tr§. H. C. DERKy I tell yon friend.—there never was another -girl like mine; Oo her l r m sure the eon Coaid not afford to shinel Tee* yee—the is the greatest girl walked beneath the skies; None star had such rosy cheeks, none snch pretty eyes! Sbei has a smile for all around. So gladsome and so free* Bat then of course she always keeps Her sweetest smiles for me. She is so good and kind at heart* : po pleasing in her Way; Obi she’s an angel—with a form Wrapped round in robes of clay! la oo My Nettie >boasti no lordly name. Nor i**n!«l>e bout of pelf; Dot, the lifts h heart that i* A fortune in itself. A fortune that will yield delight, Long After wealth has flown ; The beet of all is, now— «Ue »a>> (hat fortune's all my own. With rtll li- r beauty ad>l her charm* 1 atill fitid cause fur blame: I tell you iwbat, 1 d«> u»t like The last of Nettie’s outnc; ’Bout chaugitig it, my mind this night Shall be to her mode known; And if she think* she’d like ir. Why >»h* may have my own THE GAMBLER’S VICTIM “Allow me!” said a bland, persuasive voice at my elbow, and a white, shapely hand, stretched forth .above my shoulder, took the cup trejm mine, and dipped it in the sparkling spring. : An instant later, a handsome, dark face, which I had ire quently observed during the last few days, was bowing before me. A grave respect ful smile lighted it up. The whole air and manner of the man were those of a perfect gentleman. He gave me the glass, bowed again, and sauntered away after some slight deprecation of my thanks. There was not much in this interview, surely, but It made its impression upon me. From under the shadow of my straw hat I looked after him furtively, lest he should detect the act, and mentally commented thus: “He is a handsome man ; what a tine figure! He must be Somebody. 1 won der who he is; and 1 wish he might be presented to roe.” Then I drank another glass of the water, sauntered along the walks a little, en joying the dewy coolness of the morning, the auroral tints in the sky, the* faint, chirping birds, gradually swelling to the fullness of matin songs, and then got back to the hotel, and my room, before any body but servants wsts stirring, without having seen any one but the stranger. — Often I slept an hour, after these matuti nal walks,: before the breakfast gong sent its harsh thunders through the house, but ibis morning I sat down in a sort of wak ing dream, haunted by the dark eyes and bright face of 'the stranger, which lasted till my chaperone , Mrs. Courtney, knocked at my door, to inquire if I was ready to descend. Paul Courtney was waiting in the hall, as we went down. Paul was not very .handsome of mornings. He was always pale, and had a general air of having been awake, all night. He never had nquch to say,,nor any admiration to spare from himself, or his toilet, which on this morning in particular #as unexceptiona ble. I knew that my father and Mrs Courtnejy agreed perfectly in the opinion that Paul and I were especially designed for each other.; But I had, for some time, been inclined (o believe that the soul ma ted with mine an Heayen had got astray when it came to earth. I was pretty sure that it was not the soul which inhabited Paul-Courtney’s body. While at the breakfast-table, I noticed the tall, elegant form of the stranger, tra versing the room to find a seat at the crowded tables. A parly dpposite tons had risen, and he sat down in the only vacant■ place that they had left. He glanced at our party as he sat down—* something that was not a smile, but the reflection of a pleasant thought, perhaps, lighted his face for a moment. He bowed slightly, and then, without looking up again, commenced his meal. ’ Out of. Paul’s mustache I heard a low growl. It seemed to shape itself into a word “puppy,” but as I was uncertain, and the time noi suitable, I took no notice. — But no; sooner were we out of the room, than he turned to me, almost fiercely. “ What iluegt that fellow mean, bowing to you?” be; said, hoarsely. “Do you know him, or has he the impudence to claim a chancy acquaintance?” I might not have answered Paul, -but I saw Mrs. Courtney looking at me inquir ingly, and felt, constrained to reply. “ When I vyas at the spring, early this momiogr he came and Glled my glass. 1 have not spoken to him except to thank him'fot the service. There was nothing intrusive in bis manner, then, nor in. his very slight recognition of - me,at the table.” MY NETTIE. BY C. VAUGHN ALTOONA, PA., TUESDAY, MARCH 17, 1863 “ Certainly not,” Mrs. Courtney said, and then she drew Paul aside, and I saw, by her face and gestures, that she was ex postulating with him upon his treatment of me- I did not like Paul Courtney before ; 1 almost hated him now. I wearied myself that day thinking how it could ever be possible to drag out life by his side, and in his constant companionship. But the coils were closing around me. I did not see hpw I was to evade my father’s wishes, and escape from this hated marriage. 1 grew reckless, and‘resolved at least to en joy my freedom while it remained to me. At evening I went to the ball-room.,— Of course Paul Courtney claimed me for the first dance; but that over, 1 would nol promise a second. I had partners enough. I danced and flirted to my heart’s content. Mrs. Courtney looked grave, and uttered one or two quiet rebukes. But I would not listen. The stranger did not enter the ball room. At intervals during the evening, I saw him standing upon the verandah, near an open window that gave him a perfect view of the scene. He.seemed to know no one, or seek to know. He looked very picturesque leaning there in the moonlight that shimmered through the vine branches. Henry Adriance —that was his name upon the register, and that was all any one seemed to know. So that day passed, and several more ; and though the stranger was at the springs, no one knew him and I had not again met him. I was very cool with Paul Court ney. Edmund Gray, whom I always liked, had come down and he quite devo ted himself to me. We rode, wa.ked, and danced together, practiced duetts, and read poetry. If that dark, handsome Mr. Adriance had not constantly crossed my path, I might have had a right pleasant time. Pul one glance from his eyes would haunt me for a day. And, if 1 met him at the spring in the morning, as 1 was sure to do if 1 went there early, that I presently gave up the visit and rambled another way, the simple words of courtesy, that any stranger might have uttered, would ring in my ears all day, while I foolishly enough strove to search out seirne mystic meaning hidden in them. I was a very silly, vain girl, 1 fear ; but let this be my punishment —this frank confession. Ail these weeks I had not once men tioned the stranger to Edmund Gray. — But one morning as we were rambling, Edmund and J, in the grounds, Mr, Adriance passed us, and, with his grave smile, lifted his hat to me. I surpose i blushed a little, for Edmund looked at me with surprise, and a pained, puzzled ex pression came to his face: “Is it possible, Ada, that you know that man” he said, when we were quite out of his hearing, as he sauntered slowly alomg. “ No,” I said hesitatingly, “ I do not know him. Then, with a laugh that I tried to make unconcerned, “ I wish I did. There seems to be something strange and mvsterious about him,” “Not so mysterious as strange, I fancy,” said Edmund,'"with something that sounded like a sneer. I was angry, “ Tell me what you know of him,” I cried, “ I don’t like hints and inuendoes.” “Nrilherdo I, Ada. the little I know of him is not much to his credit ; and, therefore, I ought not, perhaps, to speak.” “ But I will know,” I said, growing more angry with every moment. There | might be something that I ought nut to hear, nor Edmund to mention to me.— He dropped- my arm, turned and looked at me with a grave surprise that restored me to myself, much ashatned at my era petuosity. “I must speak now” he said, after a 1 moment. “ P had not deemed, Ada, that yuur feelings were so much interested. Do you fancy that you love this man ?” “ You have no right to ask this ques tion,” I replied; “but 1 will answer you. I do not love him, nor fancy I do. 1 meet him daily, and he seems so strange, so different from other gentlemen here ” “ You have been• creating a romance! from very slight materials. Ada, I be- j lieve the man is a mere adventurer —a j gambler, • if not worse. Nobody here i seenw to know him, or even to have met 1 him before. Yet he has gained a gradual acquaintance with the fast set here.— j Ask Paul Courtney what he knows of, him. But no, Paul would think 1 had betrayed him ; that will never do. Ada, will you take my word for it, that the fellow is not a proper person for you to know, and that the ‘mystery’ you have been puzzling your innocent soul about is not one that you ought to unravel-” “No, I will not, Edmund Gray. If you know anything against this man, you ought to tell me frankly. At all events, yoiir words seem to imply that he is no worse than Paul Courtney, and my father considers him good enough to be the hus band of his daughter.” Edmund turned very pale. He looked at me almost wildly. “Qh, Ada'?" he said, “ I have feared [independent IK EVERYTHING. J this. But since 1 have been here, you have seemed to treat him so coldly. I took heart. Is it possible! Can it be I” *• Quite possible that my father thinks as I have said.” But you!” What I think concerns only myself, surely,” I answered, haughtily. “ Pardon me. I had no right to ask. But this Adriance* Ada, treat me as a brother, if you can, and tell me abont him.” But I was in no mood to do so then. —' Edmund's words and conduct were ithpli cable to me. We had grown up together, had played and quarreled a*children, been on those neighborly terms of intimacy, that close every day acquaintance, that leprives the intercourse of two young per sons of opposite sexes of so many of the pretty reserves and mysteries that make, up half the romance of more conven tional association. I had never known a brother, but I fancied that Edmund's place iu my regard was near the same. Still this gave him no right to criticise my actions, and I would not submit to any thing of the kind- As to the emotion he displayed, 1 dismissed it by simply think it strange, without seeking for a cause. •• I wish to go home,’’ I said. Mrs, Courtney wants me, at eleven, to ride with her. Good morning. You need not go with me,” and leaving him stand ing in the path, I hastensd away, waiting for no reply. I had walked for five minutes, perhaps, and was passing through a shaded part of the grounds, when the shrubs by the side of the path suddenly parted and Mr. Adriance stood before me. The unusual grave calm had deserted his face. He looked heated and excited. Pardon me,” he said, the moment he stood before me. “I saw Mr. Gray talk ing to you. and inferred from his gestures and manner, as well as from a word o r two that reached my ear as I followed the winding path that brought you near me again, that he was speaking ot me. Miss Lester, do not, I beseech you, allow your mind to be poisoned against me. soon as I return to town, I will seek your father’s acquaintance. My friends and associations are all at the South. But I can easily bring credentials that will certify my claim to the position and character pf a gentleman. 'Jill 1 have done so, will you suspend your judg ment of me ?" “ This is strange, sir,” I answered. ’ “ True, but I am strangely situated at present. Except yourself, there is no one here for whose opinion 1 care, save as it might influence yours As for Mr. Gray, I shall hold him to strict account for his words.” “No, do not, do not I” I cried, fearing I knew not what, from these menacing words.” “ Oh, I would not harm him. I will not, 1 mean, unless he plants himself in my way, and strives to build up his own 1 cause upon the ruins of mine.” - “ You must not be angry with Edmund, sir. He is my friend, almost my brother, and if he has said anything disparaging of you, it was but because of his interest in me —” the full force of my words sud - denly occurred to me. 1 blushed and hes itated. “ I have known Edmund from childhood,” I added. “ Have no fears for your friend,” Mr. Adriance replied, almost gaily. “If you will but allow me to speak to you occa sionally, and kindly forget my lack of proper introduction, 1 will promise to forget, on ray part, his attempt to injure me’, even though it was in a most sensi tive point.” 'i hose dark beautiful eyes were upon me, that fine mouth, red-lipped as a girl’s, smiling down into my face, and 1 bowed my head in assent. I was the captive of this bold stranger. ’1 hat afternoon Mr. Adriance handed me wafer at the spring, and at the even ing he entered the ball-room for the first time. Paul brought him to me, and in troduced him, and I danced with him He and Paul escorted Mrs. Courtney and me to the door of our parlor, when the evening was over, and went away to gether. “ A very pleasing man,” pronounced Mrs. Courtney. “ I wonder what Paul knows of him.” Paul only knew that he was “ a deuced good fellow—from the South—knows nobody here, but all right —rich as Croesus —must invite him to the house when we‘go home.” ' Every day added to my enthralment, Adriance was at my side constantly. A glance of his eyes, a word from his voice, sweet, deep.’powerful—brought me captive To his feet. I. was not sure 1 loved him, but he nad obtained a power me that made me wretchecfwhen he was not near. Edmund kept aloof from me, and, though he remained at the Springs, never ap proached, or scarcely spoke tome from that day. When the season was over we returned home. Two days afterwards nty father informed me that my marriage with Paul Courtney was arranged to take place that autumn- Paul came, and said that he “ supposed it must/ be so; old folks were bent on it, and for his part, he’d never seen a girl he liked so well.” He put a magnificent diamond upon my finger, sent me every day splendid odorous bouquets, and other costly gifts, and so—we were engaged. And all the time Adriance came al most daily to the house. As my father did not object to his presence theie, I concluded that he bad satisfied himself as to his position. And Edmund never came. 1 met him on the street,, and at the houses of friends, bat never at home. X fancied he watched me strangly. But I was unhappy ani suspicious. Paul and Adriance were much together. fancied that Paul feared his new friend —at least sometimes 1 caught a glance rom his eye that expressed both fear and hatred ; but Adriance was always bland, and Paul, who had ho conversational powers, appeared to great disadvantage in his presence. He might hate him for that cause. And so, in a whirl of excitement, ter ror stricken, sad, apprehensive of I knew not what, completely enslaved by the malign influence, 1 passed the time till my wedding-day drew near. The evening of the day had come, whose morrow was fixed for my nuptials. I sat alone in my room. iVul had been with me, in a strange mood, during the evening. He had complained for the first time that I did not love him, and had gone away angry and sullen. 1 sat listening to the sounds in the house as, one, by one, they died away. — My father had gone to his room. The servants had fastened doors and windows, and sought theirs. ~ All was silent at last, and midnight was near. I arose, and quickly arrayed myself in the traveling dress prepared for the mor row. Then taking in my hand a illttle bag, stole silently down the stairs. The bolts grated and the lock clicked, but 1 was not dismayed. Softly closing the door behind me, I stood beneath the sky of a wild, stormy night. I could see nothing, but distinctly heard the stamp of horses’ feet, and the low sound of voices a few doors below, and presently out of the dark, a figure approached. It was Adriance. He drew my hand witl in his arm, uttered a few encouraging words, and led me toward the carriage. I was going away with him that night. 1 never could describe the scene, it was so awful and sudden. But two figures rose out of the darkness, the coachman, with a terrific yell darted down the street; Adriance was seized, but wrenched him self aiway. T here were curses, both loud and deep, and fearful epithets were bandied. I stood unnoticed, when, sud denly, a little bine flame, a faint click, and then a sharp explosion; the retreating footsteps rapid aud-measured, and 1 stood there with a dark form stretched at my feet, another bending over it. T ben doors and windows opened, voices were heard, lights appeared upon the scene, and 1 was lifted in a strong pair of arms and borne swiftly into my father’s house. Just be hind me four men bore the dead body of Paul Courtney. And so I was saved 1 Adriance was the murderer, and he had fled, nor was he ever found. Afterwards we knew who be was—that he was all and more than Edmund had suspected, his true name—a terror in many homes. It was Edmund who saved me from an awful fate. He had been watchful. " He saw not only the power Adriance bad gained over Paul, but my danger. He was my truest friend in my bitterest hour of need. Two or three years after these occurrences I became his wife* My sorrow and my penitence bad earned bis confi dence. 1 had learned to love him as he de served, and there is nothing now to mar ray happiness but my deep regret for my youthful folly, and its terrible results. A COLORED PREACHER'S ADDRESS TO A NEWLY HARRIED PAIR In the last instalment of the “ Merchants’ Story” in the Continental Monthly, there is a capital description of a negro wedding, from which we quote the address of the “ officiating clergymanMy chil’ren. love one anoder'; bar wid pne anoder ; be faithful wid one anoder; you bab started on a long journey; many rough places am in de road; many truhbles will spring up by the way side: but go on hand an* hand togedder, love one anoder; an’ no matter what come enter you, yon will be happy —fur IPve will sweeten ebery sor rer, lighten ebery load, make de sun shine in cben the cloudiest wedder- I know’s it will my chil’ren, ’case Psp been ober de grdun’. Ole Akgy an’ I hab trabbled de road. Hand in hapd we hab gonp ober de recks"; frudemud; in de hot barnm*. sand; ben out togedder in de cole, an’ de rain, an’ de storm, for nigh onter forty yar, but we hab clung to one anoder ; we hub loved ope anoder; an* fru eberything, in de iery darkest days, de sun of joy an’ pehce hab broke fra de clouds, an* sent his blessed fays down inter oar hearts. “ Wo started jessiike two young sapiens you’s seed a growiu’ side by side in the woods. At fust we seemed way ‘part, for de brambles; an* de tide brush, “an* EDTTOBS AND de ugly ferns—dem war our bad ways— war atween os; bat love, likedesan, shown down on as, an’ w® grow'd. W« grow’d till cur heads gpt above de bashes; till this little branch, an’ dat ' little branch—dem war oof holy feeUh’s— put out toward one anoder, an’ we come closer an’ closer togedder. = An’ dough we’m old trees now, ah* tome times de wind blow an* de storm rags fen de tops, an* fireaten to tear off de limbs, an* to pull up de berry roots, we’m growin’ closer an’ closer, nearer an’ nearer togedder ebery day. An’ soon de ole tops will meet; soon de ole branches, all eobend ober wid moss, will twine round one anoder; soon de two ole tranks will come togedder, an’ grow into one forever—grow inter one up dar in de sky, whar de wind neber‘ll blow, whar de storm neber’U beat; whar we shall blossom an’ bar fruit to de glory ok de Lord, an’ in his heabenly kingdom forever. *• Yea, my chU’ren, you hub started on n long journey, an’ nuffin’ will git you fru it but love. Nuffin’ will hole you up, nuthn’ will keep you faithful to one anoder, nuffin will make you bar wid one anoder, but love.; None of us kin lib widout it; but married folks want it most ob all. Dey, need it more dan de broad dey eat, de water dey drink, or de air dey breath. De world couldn't go on widout it. De bery sun would go out in de bcabena but fur dat! An” shill I tell you why 1 You hab heerd Massa Robert talk ’bout the great law dat make de apple fall from do tree, de rock sink in de water; dat bines our feet to dje round ’arth so we don’t drop off it as it go fru de air; dat holds de sun an’ de stars in 'pointed places, so dat, day after day, an’ yar after yar, dough dey’m trab lilin fasscr dan de light in’ ebor went, de’in right whar dey should- be. “He call it ’traction, an’ all de great men call it so ; but dat hint de name ! It am love. It am God, fur God am love, an’ love am God, an’ love bines de whole creashun togedder! An’ shill I tell you how to do it ? Does you see dis hand 1 how I open the lingers ; how I shut’m up; how I rise de whole arm 1 ? Does you see dis foot, dat 1 dose wid jess de same ? Does you see dis whole body, how I make it, in a twinklin’, do jess what I like 1 Now what am it dat make my hand move, an’ my whole body turn round so sudden, dat I’s only to say: ‘Do it,’ an’ it am done* Why it am me. It’m me dat libs op yere in de brain, an’ sends my will fru ebery part—fru ebery siner and ebery muscle, an’ ebery little jint, an, mak’tn all do jess what 1 like. “ Now, man am made in de image ob God, an' die pore, weak ole body am a small pattren ob de whole creashun. — Eberything go on jess as it do. Ebery tbing am held togedder, an’ moved 'bout, jess as it am—but it’m God dat move it, not me! He libs op der in de sky— which am His brain-—wid de stars for His hands, de planets for His feet, an* de whole nnivarse for His body; an’ He sends His will —which am love—fru ebrey part of de whole, an’ moves it about an’ makes it do jess as He likes. “ So, you see, it am my will sent fru ebery muscle, an’ ebery little siner, dat moves my body; so it ami His will sent f.u what de ’stronomers an' de poets call de beabenly ether, dat moves his body — which'am the ’arth, an’ de sun, an de stars, you an’ me, an’ ebery libin’ ting in all creashun! His will move em all; an’ His will am love 1 An’ don’t you see dat you can’t do widout bis love t Oat it am de beiy breaf of life 1 Oat ef it wiir tooken’ wty from you. fur jess one moment, you’d drop down an’ die, ant neber come to life agin—no, not in dif worle, nor in any Oder worlet ‘• It am so my chU’ren; an’ de more you bab ob dat love de happier you’ll be; de more you’ll low) one anoder, de easier" you’ll go fru you’ life—de more joyfuller you’ll meet your death—de happier you’ll be all fru de long, long ages dat’ra cornin’ in de great yeieafter! Den Omy chil’ren! Love God, Love one anoder 1 You can’t be happy widout you love God, an’ you can’t love him widout you love one anoder.” pedestrian attacked by three highwaymen, defended hinuelf with great courage and obetingcy, but was at length overpowered and his pockets rifled. The robbers expected, from the extraor dinary resistance they had experienced, to lay their hands oh some rich booty, but were not a little surprised to discover that the whole treasure which the sturdy Caledonian had been defending at the hazard pf his life, consisted of hp more than a crooked six pence. “ The deuce is in him,” said ope of the rogues ; “ if he had had eighteen 1 pence, I suppose' he would Have killed the whole of us.” *! O* An editor out west wants to know “ what’s to become of the women if muslin goes up much higher t” Ohr devil thinks that the result will be that they’ll turn out to be a poor Mg/Hess set OF The sunset clouds sure the visible song of the day that is dead. 7' -o>.- % NO. 7